


Gospel for the Vagabonds

by Somnambulist



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Drama, Hannibal's creepy and unorthodox methods of flirtation, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, One Shot, Sick Will, Sickfic, Vampire!Hannibal, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, an AU attempting to be as un-AU-ish as possible, like he is slayed man, why do i hurt people this way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6936493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somnambulist/pseuds/Somnambulist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham, a fallen FBI investigator stranded by illness in Italy, seeks out the (nocturnal) companionship of Hannibal Lecter - a charming man who occupies a destitute church at the edge of the Italian countryside. </p><p>Or: There is darkness, and there is the night, and the lines where Hannibal begins and ends in each are obscuring with the coming storm. </p><p>Vampire AU.  One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gospel for the Vagabonds

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically an excuse to write vampire!Hannibal and all the goodness that comes with that. I haven't attempted Hannibal fanfiction up til this point because it's intimidated me so much. Believability is always my biggest concern, so I tend to roadblock myself with unreasonable standards. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> It can probably go without saying that the title is from Panic!'s "This is Gospel", but I'll say it anyways. One of my favorites. Seriously.

The late-autumn rainstorm pummeled Italy's dark streets. Fuzzy orbs of lantern-light pervaded the haze, just barely visible in the downpour, with the only other sound being the hurried footsteps of an unfortunate pedestrian caught mid-travel.

The cathedral at the edge of town, the last branch of the cobblestone path before breaking into a winding countryside, was dark and muggy, far from the majesty of the inner-city temples. Stained glass peered down coldly from the tall ceilings, laced with spiderwebs and caked-on grime. Old pews creaked with the expanding night, and a lone silhouette broke through the dim lantern-lit aisles. The newcomer took the first available pew at the far-end of the church, stretching his legs out before him and rubbing the bridge of his nose with his pointer finger and thumb.

The structure was small: a pocket of worship built as an afterthought for travelers leaving and entering the city. A single aisle lined with pews led to the pulpit, as alcoves decorated with statues of the saints bore down upon its path. The pulpit itself was a monolith of cracked wood resting above a few crumbling steps, while behind it a brilliant jewel-toned stained glass fixture bore down on its inhabitants like a furnace. A narrow staircase winded up the length of the building, leading to a loft above where an ancient organ sat collecting dust – speckled memories of sermons long gone silent.

All was quiet, save the steady drip of multiple leaks in the roof contributing to gradual puddles on the floor. The newcomer was a haggard man whose wet hair stuck in ringlets to his forehead. He closed his eyes and sat, lost in thoughts that billowed between his ears like the gale outside.

From above, another man looked down. The visitor had been coming to the cathedral for a month now, usually late at night - often during bad weather - always in varying degrees of displacement. The man from above had, up to that point, been a silent observer, drinking in his visitor's unique scent of sandalwood, earth, and something acidic resting just below the surface of his façade - a disease that preyed upon the anchors tying this man to port, threatening to gnaw the strands and release him to sea. He had taken enormous interest in watching the ropes fray, his keen sense licking the open wounds that continually bled into the hallowed walls.

But even centuries of carefully-cultivated patience could not fully stem his interest in the outsider, and with the scent of fever hot in the air that night, the temptation – ironically in the holiest of man's houses – was insatiable.

The visitor was sitting at the edge of the last pew, alternately flipping through a crumbling hymnal and massaging his temples. He approached with a honed silence. His target had not yet solidified his stance as a meal –he approached him from behind and stood.

"'Gospel Trumpets Sounding?'" he read over his shoulder, inquiring as though asking for the other's preference in drinking water.

The visitor dropped the book with a clatter, snapping his head up to attention. His eyes met the other's like a meteor and stared him down as though gazing upon a formidable opponent – startled, but unafraid. The standing man tilted his head down to match the gaze, his eyes losing the light and shimmering a solid reflection of the candle fire – the visitor shifted, the eye contact being lost an instant after being established.

The standing man spoke first. "Apologies. I did not mean to eavesdrop within the house of man's self-meditation."

The visitor blinked, his eyes drifting somewhere to the right beyond the other's form. "'Self' being a quantifiable term, in this case. And here I was, doing that thing where you talk to space and hope only the void is listening."

"True, this cathedral does not house the vocal repentance of its inhabitants as it once did – but I do take up residency in it quite often to enjoy the echoes left in their wake."

The visitor looked around grimly. "I think a wake is the only thing this place is capable of housing anymore."

"In that case, I should hope you are not seeking real estate" he responded, giving a warm, though secret, sort of smile. He gestured to the pew. "May I?"

The visitor paused, before giving a single nod and shifting farther than was necessary to accommodate. The man sat. "Hannibal Lecter" he offered.

The visitor eyed him. "Groundskeeper?"

"Of a sort."

The visitor looked straight ahead. "Will Graham."

"Architect?"

He shook his head, his eyes closing against an unseen pain. "FBI. Of a sort."

Hannibal turned his head back to the pulpit, foregoing another attempt at eye contact. "An American in Italy. Since its birth, they have waxed rhapsodic about the travels of Americans."

"It's more Seussical than poetical" Will responded, rolling his shoulders back and thumbing the corners of the hymnal. "Like a song." He flipped open to a random page, reading aloud the title scrawled at the top. "Battle Hymn of the Republic."

"A song whose roots, appropriately, lie deeper in patriotism than religion" Hannibal replied smoothly. "It is a hybrid of camp folksongs and wartime jaunts – a splicing of musical composition meant for the consumption of sensationalism during America's first Civil War."

"A melting pot intended for the great divide" Will offered back.

"How very – as you say – Seussical."

Will turned his head, the first inclinations of amusement Hannibal had ever seen teasing his face. Shadows bounced playfully off his jawline, and a growl entirely unrelated to hunger rumbled through his marrow. Interest fully piqued, Hannibal maintained his spot on the pew – dinner would come from elsewhere, tonight.

Conversation progressed passively and easily – something Hannibal had grown more used to faking than engaging in. Will was an enigma of observation and introspection, Hannibal a fountain of cultural philosophy. Companionship (another concept Hannibal had adopted more as a charade than habit) felt imminent. Curious. Intriguing, even.

Also curious was Will's penchant for pills, which he took like breath mints. The heady scent of inflammation wafted from his teetering gaze like steam from an overworked engine, yet as conversation mounted, so too did stability – Will's focus became minutely sharper, his gaze more tempered. So that by the time he got up to return to his dilapidated apartment at the edge of town, the sway was gone from his posture and his eyes weren't holding back the stabs of an unseen migraine. Hannibal observed with interest.

Will wandered to the entryway – two grand oak doors, curved in Gothic fashion – while Hannibal followed silently behind. Though Will's expression remained fatigued, the silence between them was comfortable. After a moment, he turned to Hannibal, opened his mouth as though to speak, then settled with a companionable nod and turned to exit out the large oak doors. Hannibal watched him depart, the seeds of curiosity cracking through the shell of their coat.

* * *

Will returned – sometimes within days, sometimes within a fortnight. His entrances were markedly unnoteworthy, the picture of his presence always painted by his occupancy of the outermost pew – a sinner awaiting the confessional.

It wasn't until they shared company after several months that Hannibal found Will tracing his fingers over a crumpled photo - the image of a young brunette girl trapped in a perpetual smile before him.

Hannibal took the space pew beside him. It was a moment before Will spoke.

"Abigail Hobbes. She went missing in Italy after traveling abroad for the summer. Her dad was a wanted criminal tied to the deaths of several young ladies back in America – just a small bite in a dirty, well-publicized case. We were hoping to stem the tabloids by partnering up with Inspector Pazzi to find her."

Hannibal studied the picture with appropriate concern. "Judging by your prolonged stay in the country, should one assume your efforts have not been bountiful?"

Will scoffed. "The trail went cold two weeks in. This reporter – Freddie Lounds – has spies all across the country, bastardizing private reports and releasing them to the highest anonymous bidder. The public got to us before we could get to anything. Lost a lot of backing. Couldn't make a move without some hysterical witness leading us down a cold trail. So Jack decided we'd do best to lay low for a while – leave the details to forensics."

Catching Will's gaze and asking for silent permission, Hannibal took the photo and inspected it as one would inspect art in a museum. "A disgraced case, frozen over by the false sainthood of public vigilantes. Do you still hope Italy holds answers for you?"

He handed the photo back to Will, who folded it up piously and slipped back into his wallet. "Not case-related answers, no."

"Answers of the meditative variety, then?"

"More like the 'why-can't-I-board-a-plane-without-my-frontal-lobe-exploding' variety" Will muttered miserably, burying his head in his hands and sighing deeply.

Hannibal gazed at the back of his head, the very shadows of sympathy falsely permeating the corners of his eyes, while curiosity blossomed from within. He turned the conversation to the curves and graces of the architecture, finding port in the choppy seas of Will's ocean and waiting at the dock to see what the waters drew in.

That night, after seeing Will off into the decaying thicket of scandal and rumor, Hannibal hunted – traveling 20 miles outside of the city to feed on a beautiful brunette widow who lived on a farm. After she was drained, he stared into her eyes and saw the guise of Will staring back.

* * *

As the last tendrils of Autum tickled the countryside, Will's visits to the cathedral were punctuated by the burgeoning aroma of fever. Conversations more often than not turned back towards his cold-case, gently prodded by Hannibal, who flavored the topic with a relish of egoism.

"It's not just Abigail and illness, keeping me here" he finally admitted, gazing upward at the decomposing crucifix hanging above the pulpit.

Hannibal turned his head, waiting.

"It's…I'm being mocked" he finished lamely.

"You believe the perpetrator of the crimes you're chasing is targeting you?"

Will ran his hands through his hair. "Six more girls have died since we've gotten here. All within the ages of 16-18. All brown-haired and blue-eyed. Average height. With families."

He shuddered. "Each one is more like her than the one before."

His eyes reflected pools of trouble, their waters rippling with conflict. Hannibal felt a twinge of yen. "Your sensitivities are being exposed and flayed, like the feathers off a slaughtered chicken."

"I'm nothing more than poultry to a murderer of the innocent" Will agreed.

Hannibal's gaze was opaque. "To them, you are a lavish entrée, to be prepared before it is enjoyed. I do not think it is mockery your culprit is attempting."

Will turned, locking eyes.

"It is flattery, Will. The desire to impress a Maestro by performing repeated training rituals in an attempt to show devotion to one's craft."

Will raised his eyebrows. "What role could I possibly play in training a murderer?"

"You understand" Hannibal replied simply.

"I am empathetic, but not sympathetic" Will said pointedly.

"Some kill to better understand themselves – others kill with a voracious desperation to understand emotive experience. To one who lacks the basic capabilities of sentimentality, I imagine drawing the eye of one who can understand even the most grotesque intentions is rather captivating."

For a long while, Will was silent, staring at the back of the bench in front of him and rubbing his hands, one right over the other. Beads of sweat lined his brow – the shadow of stubble on his jaw protruding in angles against his sallow skin. When he next spoke, it was with a reverent quietude.

"I hear…screaming, sometimes."

Hannibal stared fixedly, his expression even.

"It's…" Will struggled to find the words. "I'm almost certain it's not real. It's…distressed animals, or…the sounds of someone being attacked. But it's – I can never find anything to support it."

Hannibal leaned in slightly. "Sounds like the soundtrack to an overtaxed mind."

Will gazed up towards the altar again, trouble simmering just beneath his skin. He moved his hands to his arms, where they offered a vain attempt of comfort. A reminder of his own permeation. "I can't rest until he lets me" he said, very quietly.

With the moment pained and fibrous, Hannibal reached out his hand and clasped Will's knee. Warmth radiated to his preternaturally cool hands. "Regardless of what howls in the night, you do not have to face your wolves alone."

Will closed his eyes at the touch.

* * *

Rain lashed against the cathedral – a European winter, the day's gray seeping into the night's horizon. The joints of old architecture creaked and moaned, arthritic as they stretched in the damp night air. It was a few weeks after the official farewell of Autumn and the informal ushering-in of Winter that Will returned for their usual rendezvous in an unnatural state.

It was opportunistic – the furnace of encephalitis sending billows of smoke to cloud Will's judgment – and years of The Hunt had perfected Hannibal's navigation of opportunity.

But a desire to sate curiosity – and an understanding that the sweetest fruits were the ones cultivated in the richest soil (ironic, considering his diet) – whetted his appetite. Up to that point, he had contented himself with the faceless passer-bys of the countryside – anonymous travelers whose footprints were wiped from the snow before they even reached the city. But where Will was concerned - Hannibal was not ready to reap that harvest yet.

Until the harvest came to him.

The night dawned clammy – a thin wisp of fog sprinkling the air and veiling the shrouds of moon that poked through the clouds.

Hannibal awaited Will by the pulpit, his keen ears sharp on the air – but needlessly so. Will stumbled through the doors with a clatter.

Hannibal turned. With the light behind him, Hannibal could just see his shoulders bent at strange angles, the rest of him silhouetted against the entryway. He started down the apse, Will's head following him keenly as he did.

"Good evening, Will" Hannibal said slowly, approaching Will and studying his gaze. Will exhaled shakily, his eyes seeing through Hannibal to the dark portents hibernating under his skin. The stench of fever was overwhelming.

"See….tell me to see…" he husked out, a bull snared in the ring.

Hannibal resumed his approach, horeshoeing off to the side of Will and beginning a slow, wide spiral – his neutral expression fighting the interest dancing just beneath his eyes.

"Then s _ee_ , Will. I am allowing you to" he stated permissively.

Will stood sentinel, feet rooted to the floor but body lagging as though overgrown for his frame. Before his eyes, the pendulum swung – and as the church began to reverse its rot, as brick and mortar snapped back into place, as the lingering trails of ancient piety began to repopulate the old building, Hannibal remained precisely the same. Smoke and twilight poured from behind Hannibal's eyes, snaking towards Will and turning his skin gangrenous. The muck spindled around his calves, and something bubbling within the heat of his mind urged him to _go_.

He charged.

Hannibal was ready.

Will collided with Hannibal, elbow catching him hard in the jaw. Teeth clashing together, Hannibal mirrored his arms and crossed them over each other so he could grasp Will firmly by the shoulders. Will twisted unexpectedly, knocking Hannibal's wrists together clumsily and snapped around, drawing his gun and holding it falteringly in front of Hannibal's nose.

Hannibal paused, eyebrows raised and expression indifferent. He lowered his hands to his side – a passive measure of truce – while Will adopted his previous spiral.

"This….is _your_ design" Will huffed out, eyes distraught and blinking hard.

Hannibal's faced tilted fractionally. "Are you going to shoot me, Will? Skewer me with stakes and silver?"

He observed Will intently, watching him circle around to Hannibal's side. He continued speaking.

"You've made this f-for me" Will croaked, his voice crackling like sparks.

"The belt – the breastplate – the helmet – the shield – the sword" Hannibal chanted.

"The armor of God" Will sneered back, shaking his head against the congestion clouding his vision.

"If one is going to take up battle in man's holy house, he must equip the proper armaments" Hannibal explained smoothly. He dragged a rosary out of his pocket, slowly, its long tail seeping out like molasses. He busied his fingers in the beads. "Tell me, Will…."

Will stopped, parallel to the alcoves, and met his gaze, gun still drawn.

With uncanny speed, Hannibal was upon him – taking fists of Will's collar and domineering him to the edge of the building, slamming his back against the convex section of wall between the alcoves. The gun clattered to the floor.

"What sort of arms-dealer might you be?" he finished, his eyes like coals on Will's cheeks.

Between each alcove, lanterns hung from sconces, their thin chains coiled through metal loops on the wall – a portable design, meant for the lanterns to be removed and brought outside for sermons long since forgotten. Will struggled in Hannibal's grasp, fever radiating through his clothing, but a predatory strength bolstered Hannibal's movements, as he wrenched Will's arms apart and coiled them tightly around the chains

Will was now held in place, arms suspended between the sconces and back against the stone wall. His breath churned from his mouth arhythmically, his eyes still dark and feral and unseeing.

Hannibal stood just to the side, feet planted and shoulders rigid from the struggle. Salt and sweat and fever saturated the room like an afghan blanketing his shoulders. For a moment he stared, something hot bubbling in his gut as the beast before him wrenched his shoulders back, fighting the restraints. Will's arms writhed, chain grinding against stone and echoing off the chambers. Sweat glimmered beneath his shirt, mussed and torn, and shone in the mess of his hair. The candle light bathed the alcove in sepia, bleeding into Hannibal's vision and flooding his gaze with the sight of his catch.

Then, something spring-locked unleashed just below his gut, and a scorching pang tore through his muscle. Vigor like syrup congealed at the tip of his tongue, and with two fell steps, Hannibal broke the distance between them and bore down on his prey. Just barely not-touching, he kept his hands at his side and felt his jaw gnash against his molars.

The inches between them were the thread of a fuse, Hannibal chasing the spark into the oncoming explosion. Hannibal swam like inky entrails before Will's frenzied vision, his back grating up against the stone wall and arms contorting grotesquely against the chain. At such close proximity, he halted, staring into Hannibal's face as though searching for riddles.

"See…see…." He panted out, his pulse throbbing dangerously close against his throat and wrists circling weakly in the only movement they could manage.

"Yes, Will….see. See as I do. 'For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all nations; a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and the _glory_ of my people.'"

With one fluid motion, Hannibal's arms snapped around Will, one bracing the back of his head while the other seized his waist. There was no distance between them, now, Hannibal's torso crushing the other's beneath him. Entangling his fingers in Will's damp hair, he yanked his head to the side and sunk his teeth into the vein in his neck – instantly, the skin pierced. Red, viscous blood poured warm and evenly into his lips.

Will let out a strangled cry, his body lurching sideways instinctively – but Hannibal's grip was unrelenting. The lantern chains clattered against the wall, adding new echoes to the cathedral before them; but after a fruitless effort, he stilled, his hands balling into fists as his eyes stared beyond Hannibal's shoulder – leaving nothing but the ominous pitch before him.

Hannibal's lips were cool on his neck, the veins pumping naively into the flow between his canines. Hannibal drank, Will's unique scent of musk and cedar coagulating with the sharp metallic taste of his body. The flavor was tangy, aromatic, and entirely unique - a symphony flooding the roof of his mouth.

As Will stilled, Hannibal's grip lessened – his fingers releasing the vice on his hair and instead splaying out comfortably, twirling the strands in circles against his scalp. The gentle gesture felt serrated to Will, whose chest heaved with exertion – thrumming against Hannibal's torso like a heartbeat itself. Hannibal consumed to a familiar rhythm, the hand around Will's waist tracing up his back and fingernails burrowing between his shoulder blades.

Hannibal was not going to drain him – but the surprise opportunity had unleashed years of a precisely-trained instinct, the reward of this particular hunt too enticing to pass up entirely. He took generously, alleviating the frenzy of Will's fervor, as Will's body weakened and fell heavily against his own. Their forms became progressively more entwined, Hannibal shifting his weight onto one foot and pressing his hips into Will's to accommodate Will's increasingly limp state. Heat jumped between them, as Will's eyes finally fell closed and Hannibal took his final intake.

He did not release his hold immediately. The tastes of meat and iron chased each other down his throat, as new blood began pumping through his body – Will's blood, rich and scarlet. Hannibal closed his eyes, mouth still hot against Will's neck, and inhaled deeply. He followed the smooth pane of muscle to the back of his ear, where his lips met the skin behind his lobe. Just beyond a nest of bones, a sick and heady mind fermented its poison.

A small clatter caught his attention – the chains brushing against the stone, as Will's weight in his arms moved with him.

Hannibal finally released his grasp, taking one step back so he could reach the first lantern still restraining the now-unconscious Will. With one hand bracing Will and the other at the lantern, he untwisted the chain and Will fell off to the side, his equilibrium upset as the link came undone. Hannibal swiftly untied the other, catching Will evenly as he sank, and – with new blood invigorating old muscle – carried his charge away from the alcoves.

He took to the stairs, creeping up the dark steps to his arrangements above. The loft was small and rectangular, with the giant church organ occupying most of the immediate space. Beyond it, a small storage room-turned-living-quarter sat adjacent to a dark and windowless pocket, where Hannibal had his sleeping accoutrements.

Hannibal carried Will into the old storage room, which was pleasantly decorated with a red leather chaise and adorned with fleur-de-lis cushions, neighboring a matching red armchair. In the corner sat an ornate writing desk, complementing the walls that were lined with shelves of books. He lay Will on the chaise, Will's porcelain, bloodless complexion contrasting sharply with the deep red, and stacked the decorative cushions under his feet. After draping a quilted throw over him, he moved to the hallway to grab a large, black satchel leaning against the wall, and headed back in to set it in the adjacent armchair.

He took a moment to stare, honoring the sight of the vessel of his borrowed blood, before taking off into the night below.

* * *

Consciousness returned to Will gradually. Phosphenes danced behind his eyelids, as the sensation of softness beneath him fought the daggers flying through his head. The concept of moving his arms flitted across his mind, but was almost instantly dismissed. He compromised by turning his head minutely to the side, testing his range of motion and feeling exhausted just at the thought.

"Will."

The voice was a buoy in choppy waters. His thoughts seemed lazy and apathetic. He searched for a string of memories to derive some kind of context from, but his mind relayed the same channels of static over and over again.

"Will – you're going to feel very weak, but I need you to open your eyes."

Against all other options, Will casted his lifesaver out to an unfamiliar river and prayed it wouldn't snag. He readied himself – the thought of operating any of his muscles seemed nothing short of mythical. But as he relayed the command to his brain, the drawstrings behind his eyes ran taut, and he pulled them open like a boulder rolling off the entrance to a tomb.

The familiar face of Hannibal swam before him, hazy and dark around the edges. Will studied it scrupulously; he couldn't be sure what was medical and what was his own special brand of neuroses anymore, but the figure before him offered assistance by way of a familiar lilt. Will's own hallucinations were never so pleased to see him.

"Good evening - for the second time, my friend" Hannibal chimed smoothly, procuring a bowl whose steam rose up between them, a veil of condensation obscuring his features.

Will attempted to command his vocal cords into action, but the order was discarded as a new wave of pain struck his temples. He barricaded his eyes against the barrage, and thought of Advil. When was his last dose? He wrenched his eyes open and tried again, managing a croak of syllables.

"Whe…..nn….the-"

Thankfully, Hannibal spared him. "You came to visit me tonight, as is custom, but fell very ill upon arrival. I've moved you to someplace more comfortable, and brought you something to eat. I must insist upon it – you need to replenish your strength, unless you are looking to take this building up on its offer for wake services."

Hannibal set the bowl down on a side table and moved closer. "Together, then" he said, placing his arms on Will's shoulders and moving him upright against the back of the chaise. Will's head instantly fell forward like dead weight, and Hannibal grasped his hands, rubbing the tops with his thumbs methodically.

"Numbness and fatigue are common symptoms of blood loss" he explained. "It is necessary to coax your muscles back into obedience."

At that, confusion overtook discomfort, and Will found his voice – a croaky, mangled thing. "Blood loss…? How does one fall ill with blood loss?"

Hannibal replaced his hands with the bowl he had prepared earlier, his movements orchestrated and calm. "You were in an agitated state when you got here, and found yourself injured after a frenzy, I'm afraid."

Will looked to the bowl on his lap, steam rising in spirals before him. "I…don't remember any of that."

"What do you remember?" Hannibal inquired, folding his palms over each other.

Will tested his dexterity by curling his fingers around the spoon. "Black. Stifling darkness. I only remember suffocating."

Hannibal gave an encouraging nod. "Eat. First food, then medicine. You've not been gone long – the night is still young before us." He got up and moved to the writing desk, where he began pulling medical supplies out of a black satchel.

Will sighed in assent, and lifted the first spoonful clumsily up to his lips. The broth was rich and savory, a hint of spice offering heat to his dead mouth.

"I…this is really good. What is it?"

Hannibal spoke from across the room. " _Minestra maritata_ – a traditional dish that is comprised of a harmonious blend of green vegetables and savory meats."

Will stared into the broth. "Italian wedding soup."

Hannibal smiled.

For a few minutes, there was silence – Will making slow progress on his meal, while Hannibal arranged supplies on the desk. After a few forced mouthfuls, the nausea returned with reinforcements, and Will closed his eyes in surrender – the spoon clattering into the bowl.

Hannibal took his cue – removing the dish, he reoccupied the armchair, his hands gloved and sleeves rolled to the elbow. Working unerringly, he pulled out a syringe and readied Will's arm, which Will instantly twitched away - too fatigued to move it entirely, but insistent on showing his protest.

Holding up the syringe, Hannibal met his eyes. "Intravenous nutrients – a multivitamin" he said, and Will resigned.

"There are many lighthouses beckoning your boat to dangerous shores, Will" Hannibal said conversationally, tying Will's arm and disinfecting the crook.

"And I've got an anchor in every one of them" he replied heavily, watching Hannibal slide the needle in with detached interest.

"It is no small wonder your back hasn't broken from the weight of the iron you drag behind you" Hannibal said, extracting the syringe and dabbing at the small puncture left behind.

Will shrugged as Hannibal untied the elastic from his arm, Hannibal moving back to the desk to dispose of the equipment. Will kneaded his temples, mentally running a casualty report as he rubbed his shoulders, his wrists, the back of his neck….

Upon contact, the prick of a bizarre pain shot through him, repelling his hand like an electric shock. The skin felt raw and irritated, the swollen skin pocketing pricks of discomfort. He searched the wound carefully, and images began sprouting to the forefront of his mind – residue left on the underside of his memory. His eyes snapped back to Hannibal, who was watching him with great interest.

Will was at a loss. "It….this is…did you _bite_ me?"

Hannibal's eyes were unreadable. "What do you remember?" he asked again, his voice low and soft. Challenging.

Aching for memories that were lost to fragments, Will clutched the side of his neck, fingernails digging into the tender skin to forcefully remind himself of his own shaky memories.

His next words were carefully chosen. "If you're indicating an affinity for blood-sucking Transylvanians, then I'd say my brain is more swollen than any doctor has been able to confirm."

Hannibal took another step closer. "I am not asking you to believe in fantasy. Only in what you have seen yourself."

Will gave a humorless chuckle. "I'm not exactly the most reliable witness."

Another step nearer – "I trust your judgment immensely." Another step. "See."

As his lips parted on the last syllable, the white flash of something jagged winked at Will in the dimness. He stared, his pendulum swinging, the ruddy corners of a jigsaw falling evenly together as Hannibal's centuries-old form stood before him. He grabbed his wrists, deep grooves forming welts like a crop trail along his forearms.

"How…is that possible?" he finally asked, the words aporetic in his throat.

"How is the faith of man possible? The unwavering acceptance of Divinity since the birth of humanity itself?" Hannibal responded, collectedly.

Will shook his head. "Since the creation of Man, there's been the questioning of said creation."

"Certainly. There are plenty who deny my existence – and philistines who aim to claim it, as well."

Will stared back incredulously. The color was grey on his face, his gaze still foggy with confusion as the battle for what he saw versus what he knew was fought between his eyes.

Hannibal closed the space between them, sitting on the armchair and meeting his stare evenly. "How do you see me, Will?"

There was a long and fleshy silence. Will's gaze flickered off to the side as his fingers habitually pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I see you in two forms. One is through conscious gaze. The other is through the filter of psychosis."

Hannibal leaned in warmly. "The half-truths of two stories, regardless of how preposterous they may sound, bring clarity to fact."

Will sighed. "And what about the other halves?"

"I have not once lied to you" Hannibal responded simply.

"It's not you I'm worried about" Will mumbled, turning his gaze towards the ceiling as though looking for a signpost above him.

"You are worried you cannot trust yourself?"

"I keep the company of fairytales. I hardly glean that trustworthy."

Hannibal's eyes crinkled at the edges with amusement. "Yet the continual debate of God as fact or fiction, the company of faith itself, weaves in and out of history seamlessly."

"And you would be a firsthand witness to that?"

"I am."

Will gazed at him, blinking as though caught in a sunbeam and imploring the shadows before him to make sense.

After a palpable moment, he broke the contact and sighed. "You may be old, but I'm still not calling you 'God'" he said conclusively.

Hannibal broke into a true smile, his teeth sharp and dancing along his gums. "'Hannibal'" will do just fine."`

"Hannibal" Will repeated. His hands returned to his forehead, kneading his scalp like dough – his movements beginning to atrophy with exhaustion.

Hannibal pulled out a roll of gauze and began unraveling the rung. "It is I who should be apologizing to you. For the pain. I am out of practice in keeping my fares alive."

Will scoffed, swallowed by the lashing of rain against the roof. "Philosophers have debated the relationship between pain and God for centuries" he stated.

"History has determined pain's existence to strengthen the will of man. Though tell me, where do you stand in the debate?" Hannibal asked.

"You've ever taken a magnifying glass to an anthill?"

"Does such crude amusement manifest in the wake of omnipotence?"

Will gave out a shuddering sigh. "You tell me. I'm sure centuries of firsthand observation will have rendered ancient religious texts moot." He shifted his weight and swayed as dizziness fogged up his vision.

Hannibal extracted a strip of gauze and held it to Will's neck, holding his other hand to his forehead. "You are feverish" he stated, standing and returning back to his satchel at the desk.

Will's eyes followed him as he swept across the room, head falling against the back cushion. "You must be the longest-practicing physician in existence."

Hannibal smiled, rummaging for supplies. "I must admit, keeping the company of one so reckless with his health was a large motivator in taking up practice again."

Will winced. "Next time I'll ask for a business card."

Hannibal returned to the chaise, holding a water cup to Will's mouth and helping him take a few sips. A tug of nausea pulled Will down, and Hannibal held his shoulder as though bracing him for impact. **"** Even without my interference, you are flirtatious with Death, Mr. Graham."

Will gave a short and husky chuckle. "Lucifer was a thing of magnificence and beauty. His fall from Heaven was a tango – deep and rhythmic."

"And utterly transfixing. What does the devil look like to his lover, Will?"

Will's eyes met his, dark seafoam meeting the crash of ice, and clarity flickered to the front of the haze. The moment was heavy on Will's tongue as electricity jumped between them. Despite the world melting into kaleidoscopes around him, his expression was still, his eyes singing hymns to Hannibal's gaze. "He is the ink of night, bleeding into snow and staining landscapes with his touch."

Hannibal blinked slowly in the low-light, holding his hand to Will's neck. The wound pulsed beneath his hands, the fibers of Will's still-weak pulse dancing under his fingers. With deft ministrations, Hannibal finished dressing the wound. Will had closed his, the weight of Hannibal's hands cradling his neck.

Once the last strip of gauze was firmly secured, Hannibal placed his hand behind Will's shoulders and shifted him just to the side of the chaise, moving from the armchair to the newly available space and securing Will in place with his torso, letting his head lean onto his shoulder. Hannibal's other hand wrapped itself around Will's wrist, purpling from being bound, a familiar heartbeat thumping laboriously against his veins. Its rhythm spoke like a tango to Hannibal's ears.

Will shuddered, cold beginning to seep in as his low-grade fever played cruel pranks on his homeostasis. Hannibal began rubbing his shoulders to generate heat. Eyes wilting, Will spoke at just above a whisper into Hannibal's sternum. "'For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall show great signs and wonders…'"

"'…so that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect'" Hannibal finished, tilting his chin and rubbing circles into Will's limp wrist. "'And then shall that Wicked be revealed, whom the Lord shall consume with the spirit of his mouth, and shall destroy with the brightness of his coming.'"

Hannibal's arm squeezed Will's shoulders, and for a long time they sat – Will curled into Hannibal, Hannibal tracking his pulse and gazing at the shadows shimmering on Will in the lowlight, like a mirage in the desert. Will was art and pain and glass, and Hannibal his curator.

The sounds of rain slowed to a drizzle before Hannibal broke the humid silence.

"Will? Are you present?"

Will was silent, eyes closed as though deep in slumber. Hannibal pulled Will's wrist to his lips, and pressed it deeply to his mouth. The pungent taste of iron coated his lips like a balm, and Will stirred – eyes opening halfway.

"Will?"

Will hummed, cracked and hoarse.

"What do you see, Will?"

Will's lips parted as his feverish mind searched for words. "Nightfall in a blazing room" he said, haltingly.

"And of Lucifer?"

Will blinked dazedly. "Just within."

Hannibal smiled, something possessive and sinister crawling across his features. A reckoning lay below inky streams in Will's mind, his rivers polluted with tar and pitch – draining into the oceans of Hannibal's still waters. Grains of silt and sediment lined the shores. As the night matured, the seed coat broke, and Hannibal looked to the next becoming.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be multi-chaptered, but it turns out I’m still a one-shot-junkie - just, you know, very long one-shots. Feedback means a lot to me, so I hope you'll drop me a few words - I really love hearing what you think. Thanks a bunch for stopping by~ xoxo


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